Over the Top

by Alison Hughes

  They were pros at using mind games. Which, when you really think of it, was a unique and very effective mean-girl strategy. Marks for originality, I guess. I saw the strategy in action yesterday, my second day of school, when I delayed going out for recess by pretending I couldn’t find something in my backpack. Rummaging in your backpack is a very good time-wasting strategy. I highly recommend it. You appear busy, it’s believable (who among us hasn’t rummaged?), and it’s boring, so nobody watches for very long or stops to calculate how long you’ve been rummaging. They just glance over, see a girl trying to find something in her backpack, then off they go. Nobody thinks: “Hey wait a minute—that girl has been rummaging in her backpack for ten full minutes!” They just move on.

  Yesterday I’d rummaged so successfully that everyone in the class had gone out for recess by the time I’d looked up. Mr. Khan was away from his desk. I was all alone in the classroom. I sat there with my backpack open on my lap (rummage-ready), in the peace and quiet, hoping I could sit there all recess. But then I heard girls’ voices coming down the hall.

  “Kallie! Kallie! Where is she?”

  “Probably outside. Wait, is she still in class?”

  “I’ll check.” Miko appeared in the open doorway. She was very pretty, with dark eyes and jet-black, long, straight, silky hair with no frizz at all. She had a rose-gold cellphone in one hand. She always had just the right clothes—stylish yet a bit edgy. Hair right, clothes right, everything, everything right.

  But here’s the mean part. Here’s an example of the meanness. She looked into the classroom, looked right straight at me, called, “Nope, nothing. Nobody’s here,” and left.

  Nothing. Nobody. Thanks, Miko.

  Anyway, Kallie and Miko were a gang of two that grew at recess when they joined up with Miranda and two other girls I didn’t know. Five people to avoid.

  Recess and lunch were the worst times at school. That was when it was obvious that I didn’t belong to any of the groups of kids who talked and laughed together, who played soccer or basketball, or who stood around the corner in the cool-kids spot even though it was technically off-limits.

  This morning passed quickly, and the problem of recess was solved by Mr. Khan asking for volunteers to stay in to help organize a big shipment of books for the book fair. Two of us stayed in—me and a boy who’d sprained his ankle playing soccer. He was so nice. Funny, friendly, no pressure. No asking me about my stupid name or where I was from. Just goofy comments about the book covers. One had a cat on it, and he made me stack those because, as he said, “I’m a dog person, and my dogs would smell it on me.” I wished I could remember his name from that lightning-fast intro my first day, but I still didn’t know most of the kids’ names in my class. He had longish, sandy brown hair and friendly hazel eyes behind circular glasses. There was a gap between his front teeth when he smiled, which sounds weird or even possibly unattractive, but it wasn’t.

  So morning recess was a definite win.

  Now I had to worry about getting through lunch recess. Even though it was a beautiful spring day, I vowed I wouldn’t go outside and wander the field alone again. Lunch recess had been dismal yesterday and the day before. I’d slunk along the fence on the outside of the school field, watching the others while pretending I wasn’t. I finally sank down as far away from everyone as I could get and read my book. That book had saved my life.

  I would have gone out into the field if ’Ro had needed me, if he’d been lonely, too. But ’Ro had already made friends, lots of friends. I’d seen him playing soccer in the fourth grade area yesterday. He saw me, too, and waved. I waved back and pretended like I was part of a group of girls ahead of me. I didn’t want ’Ro to think I was pathetic. What could be worse than your nine-year-old brother’s sympathy?

  That annoying feeling of your younger sibling having everything way more together than you do.

  Today, I evaluated my options while I slowly munched carrots dipped in hummus. I peeked up from my book and looked around the emptying cafeteria. Most of the kids had wolfed down their lunches and ran outside as soon as the bell rang for lunch recess.

  Mr. Khan bustled through the cafeteria toward the library and glanced over at me.

  “Still here, Diva? Why don’t you get some sunshine? Catherine, Lila,” he called to two girls near the door who were laughing and pulling on hoodies, “Diva might like to join you.” He said this in a pointed, teacher-like way. It was as clear as if he’d shouted “Hey! Weird new girl’s lonely. C’mon, help her out.”

  He was trying to help, but it made it worse to be a charity project. The girls looked over at me. Not unfriendly girls. Not mean girls. Just girls who wanted to get outside and talk to each other, or play soccer, or whatever. I’d already forgotten their names. Mom clearly wasn’t the only one who was bad with names.

  “Sure. You want to come outside with us, Diva?” They smiled as they said it. They were nice. Doing their duty. But I could tell they were probably just inviting me because Mr. Khan asked them to. I could feel my face getting hot.

  I still had just a tiny bit of pride left.

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll look for you outside. I just have to make a phone call first.” I shoved the remains of my lunch into my backpack.

  The student courtesy phone outside the school office was being used by a very young, visibly sick boy who seemed to be spending a long time convincing whoever was on the other end that he wasn’t faking.

  “… I can hardly breave… [cough, cough]. No, I’m not! Not this time. My froat’s sore…”

  Trying not to think of the disgusting germs he was coughing into the phone, I skulked in the nearby library, strategically ducking and circling the stacks so as to remain invisible to people passing by. Yesterday, the librarian had let me stay for a while even though the library closes at lunch, but she eventually shooed me outside.

  The sick boy had finally snuffled off to wait, red-eyed and runny-nosed, on the bench in the office. I sat down and wiped the phone down my jeans, then I bunched up a handful of my sweater and wiped it again with that. Finally, I pretended to punch in numbers, waited, and then talked animatedly to the dial tone and the wall.

  “Oh, hi, Maddie.” I always “called” Maddie, my friend from my old school. Time-wasting strategy number two, when rummaging isn’t an option. I missed Maddie and had called her for real a few times since we moved. She’d become friends with another group, which was good, which was great. I was happy for her. I was also selfishly worried that we wouldn’t stay in touch, that she’d forget all about me.

  “Uh huh, uh huh… Sure, that sounds great!” I faked. “Who’s coming? Oh, okay…”

  I chatted happily with the dial tone for a few minutes until another boy came and stood nearby. He dumped his backpack on the ground, obviously waiting for his turn. I glanced over my shoulder, dismayed that I couldn’t kill at least five more minutes with my super-fun, imaginary phone-friend.

  “Mmm-hmm. Sounds fun. No way! Get out. Well, better go here… bye!”

  I saw by the clock near the front door that it was only 12:20. Fifteen minutes to kill. I didn’t feel up to facing the field, trying to find those two nice girls from my class. Caitlyn? Lisa? I headed down the hall to the theater. I’d discovered yesterday that the stage door didn’t shut properly. I’d opened it and peeked out onto the dark stage. Maybe today I could sit in the audience seats quietly in the dark and wait until the bell rang. That would be fine. Peaceful, even. I could definitely waste fifteen minutes there.

  I went past the main theater doors, around the corner, and climbed a flight of stairs with a door at the top. STAGE DOOR was stenciled on it in large, black letters. I pulled it open, startling a couple of teachers who turned, balloons in hand. A banner on the stage read BOOK FAIR. Forgot about that.

  “Oops, sorry. Wrong door,” I said, shutting it quickly. I stood outside the door, listening to the teachers resume talking and wondering whether I could sit here on the top stair. The voices got
louder. They were coming toward the door.

  I hustled down the stairs. Was there nowhere in this whole school that was private? Where I could sit by myself? I looked around, feeling desperate.

  I saw the green door of the girls’ bathroom across the hall. That would have to do.

  The bathroom was empty. I chose the last stall, locked it, folded over a couple of lines of toilet paper, laid them carefully along the seat, and sat down. I stared at the gray door. Somebody had scratched a heart on the door with the initials A.S. + S.W. I wondered who they were, and whatever happened to A.S. and S.W. I thought of a bunch of names and finally settled on Alexandra Slade and Steven Wentworth. Alex and Steve. Were they in junior high, or maybe even in high school now, maybe dating? Or would they be absolutely horrified at the thought of dating each other? Sixth grade was a long way from high school. Somehow, I hoped it had worked out for Alex and Steve.

  Looking to my right, somebody had written in Sharpie: “You are your own dream come true!” That’s the sort of thing Mom would love. I stared at it, thinking no, I most definitely am not a dream come true, mine or anybody else’s. I kind of hated Sharpie-girl for making me think of how un-dreamlike I was.

  I shut my eyes. At least it was quiet in the bathroom. Or it was for a while, until the door banged open and a group of girls came rushing in, laughing. I quickly tucked up my legs, my arms hugging my knees. I heard toilets flush and water run as the girls chattered.

  “… there. Much better. The smell of that hand sanitizer was making me totally sick…”

  “… and he said, like, ‘I’m sure,’ but he said it, like, in this super-mean way…”

  “… Oooh. New lip gloss? Gimme. C’mon! Oh, I like! What color is it? Divine Diva…”

  “You’re such a diva!”

  “I am, aren’t I?”

  “Diva! That’s that new girl’s name.”

  I froze.

  “The skinny one with the frizzy hair? Khan’s class. Your class, Kallie! Can you imagine actually being named Diva?”

  “Please. It’s beyond stupid. It’s like, ‘I’m such a Di-va!’” Kallie sang out my name very dramatically.

  “She’s not a real diva,” said a girl with a flat voice. “That would actually be interesting. She’s just boring.” I sat dead still in the stall at the end, knowing that last voice was Miranda’s. “Her family bought that hideous pink house next door to us. Get this: her brother’s name is actually Hero.”

  “No. Way.”

  “That’s way worse than Diva. That’s… wow. Messed up.”

  “Her mom’s super-pushy,” Miranda’s bored voice continued. “Tried to get my mom to buy some birthday party supplies or something. My mom was like, ‘Um, who are you?’” The other girls giggled.

  I know for a fact that my mom would never have done that. She doesn’t sell party supplies. She’s a party planner. Either Miranda’s mom was lying or Miranda was. I picked Miranda.

  “On a less totally boring note,” Miranda continued, “do we know when auditions are for the play?”

  “End of the week, I think. You know you’ll get Dorothy.”

  “Yeah. But who’s going to get all the other parts? I mean, I want to know who I have to deal with. If, like, Spencer is the Tin Man or the Lion, I will kill myself.”

  “Might be. He can sing.”

  “And he’s, like, three feet tall with those lame glasses…” She clearly did something with her hands, because the other girls laughed.

  Spencer. Of course: Spencer. That was the nice guy who had unloaded the books with me during morning recess. He was almost my height, mean girls, not that that matters. And his glasses were cool.

  “Anyway,” said another voice. “The little dictator hasn’t said when the auditions are.”

  “Director,” said Miranda.

  “Dictator,” emphasized the first girl. She went on in an elaborate French accent: “Zat is eet, Mees Smit! You ’ave no beezness near zis play!”

  The door banged open.

  Judging from the girls’ dead silence, it was an adult.

  “Oh, hi, Professor Ducharme,” said Miranda. Her voice was completely different. Eager. Suck-uppy.

  “’Ello, Miranda,” said a cool, clear voice, with just a hint of an accent. “What is this? Some sort of club? Out you go. Shoo, shoo.”

  “Okay, but please just tell us when you’ll be having auditions for the play. Please, please, please?” I could just imagine her opening her eyes wide and clutching her hands together.

  “You can wait for the announcement like everyone else.” The hard voice cut sharply across Miranda’s wheedling pleas. “Now out, out!”

  Footsteps, stifled giggles, and then the door banged. The sound of a tap running was blocked out by the loud buzzer signaling the end of lunch recess. As I bolted out of the bathroom, my eyes met Madame Ducharme’s for a second in the mirror. She looked startled, probably thinking she’d been alone in the bathroom. I slipped into the crowd of kids streaming in from the schoolyard.

  I kept my eyes on the floor, watching the shoes of the boy in front of me. My heart gradually slowed down.

  That relieved feeling of release from something really, really awful…

  CHAPTER 6

  I Realize I Am Not Promposal Material

  I won’t be needing you for this one, pumpkin,” Mom said. “It’s not a kids’ party.”

  Hero and I had been her party-planner helpers for years, her “Party-Partners.” For parties involving adults, that mostly called for loading and unloading the van, blowing up balloons, stuffing loot bags, or folding serviettes.

  “This party’s a ‘promposal.’” Mom smiled, expertly curling a bunch of long ribbons with one side of scissors and her thumb. Whatever that was, it was her latest booking, for Friday night. Judging by the huge calendar marked in red and the state of the basement, the Pink Palace Party Planners had lots of business in the few weeks it had been up and running. Labeled plastic totes lined the basement storage shelves. Some were marked normal things like Streamers, Balloons, Party Favors, and Ribbons. But many were in Mom-speak: Do-Hickeys, Froo-Froos, Whatnots, Bling-Blings, Fancy-Schmancies, and Dingle-Dangles. Everything was divided into sections, according to theme. We were in the “Romance” section of the basement (including engagements, weddings, anniversaries, and now, apparently, promposals).

  “So romantic! The girl’s mother has hired me to decorate the house before her special friend comes over and pops the question.”

  “Seriously? This is a thing? He’s just asking her to go to prom? This isn’t actually, like, their prom?”

  “Oh, no,” laughed Mom. “That would be a way bigger deal. No, this is just the asking part.”

  “Wow. That’s actually a thing? I never even knew that was a thing. It seems weird to make a big deal, to actually have a party, because of a simple question. It seems like something you could do standing by your lockers or in the hall at school or something. I mean, quick. Ask, answer, you’re done.”

  “I’m dying from the romance, Diva,” Mom said, rolling her eyes and putting her hand over her heart.

  I threw a fake flower at her. “You know what I mean. In private, just the two of them.”

  “The idea is for the party to be public, Diva, not private. I mean, it’s a promposal.” Mom kept stressing that, annoyingly, like it was a real word.

  “It’s a party? They’re having guests?”

  Mom looked up from the fake flowers she was stringing into garlands.

  “Of course! Food, music, cake, fireworks—the whole shebang. Oh, and they’ve hired a professional videographer.” Mom said this as though that fact magically made this ridiculous thing legit.

  “Videoing it? They’re videoing a guy asking a girl to go to prom with him? That’s ridiculous.” Why did I feel about a hundred years old? Was there something I was missing here? This all seemed pretty grim to me. In fact, in front of guests, with the cameras rolling, it sounded like the least romantic th
ing in the whole world.

  “Wait!” I said, startled by a sudden idea. “She’s going to accept, right?” I said. “I mean, they’re not decorating the house and filming it and everything and she’ll be all, like, ‘I’ll think about it,’ or ‘Nah, I don’t think so.’ Right?” I don’t know why that mattered to me. I guess I hated the thought of some guy getting humiliated in front of what sounded like a big crowd.

  “I think that’s the idea,” Mom said, biting off a piece of thread. “Shame they both have acne.” She made a pained face and gestured on her cheek with her hand. “Maybe the makeup artist will manage to hide it.”

  Makeup artist. I had no words for all of this. Promposal people clearly belonged to a different species than I did.

  I helped Mom shake out the garlands of flowers, then circle them carefully around pieces of cardboard. I looked at the boxes stacked nearby. One filled with little bottles of bubbles. One with noisemakers. Streamers. Candies. “Promposal Pretzels,” Mom pointed out. They looked just like regular pretzels to me.

  “Seems a big deal for just a prom,” I said. “I mean, I bet most people who go to prom together don’t get married or anything.”

  “Probably not. But your dad and I did,” said Mom, dimpling.

  “True. But I bet you guys are pretty rare. And I’ll bet you didn’t have a stupid party when Dad asked you.”

  “Actually,” said Mom confidingly. “I asked him.”

  “Hey, that’s pretty cool, Mom,” I said, looking at her with new respect.

  “He was so shy,” Mom sighed. “So I said to myself: ‘Rosie, it’s never going to happen unless you make it happen and ask him.’ So I did.” She winked at me.

  I did not know this. Mom chased Dad. Weird.

  “Did I ever see a picture of you at your prom?”

  “Oh, gosh, no. And good thing. I had this hideous hand-me-down dress from my cousin. Dark green, of all un-prom-like colors. And clunky, old-lady sandals. Horrible, just horrible. Your dad borrowed a suit jacket from his uncle (too short in the arms; his wrists were sticking waaay out) and his shoes from his brother. They were about three sizes too big!”